Crimson Footprints lll: The Finale (19 page)

He was ushered past almost immediately, and rushed to catch up.

“You’re illegal,” he said in a rush of air.

She shot him a murderous look but said nothing. It was confirmation enough.

He allowed her to lead him to the luggage carousel, his opinions vacillating wildly from righteous indignation to sorrow and uncertainty. She had no right sneaking into a country illegally, no right to utilize the resources hardworking citizens made possible. He should turn her in himself. But just as he thought it, a contrary vision came flying on its heels. One of a young Carmen, fleeing the poorest part of the poorest country in South America. Of course, she fled. Why should she stay there? To waste her life in squalor, in hopelessness?

Mike claimed his luggage as Carmen went for a single ratty, stained suitcase. He took it from her and stared at her expectantly. He had questions. Questions about what she was doing in Aruba, who she’d been seeing. But his family came first.

“What do we do?” he said.

Carmen shook her head. “About your family? I’m not sure. I don’t have many resources, Michael, but let me think.”

For a woman supposedly so deprived, she had access to international travel, a good command of English, and perhaps, a few other surprises in store. The constant curiosity that bolstered him, tingled in desire to know. Who was this woman that drifted between border patrols without making a scene? Which of his assumptions about her were wrong?

“You can’t keep them out the storm,” Carmen said. “The best you can do is send help as quickly as possible.”

“Help?” Mike echoed dumbly. The bags in his hands grew heavy. He set them on the floor.

“I am talking of a rescue effort. You must call someone and alert them to their presence.”

“Of course,” he said. But who?

He chewed on his bottom lip. His mother and father were there. His grandmother, brother, and sister. Deena was there, he thought, and shut the door on what followed that.

Some sort of boat or plane, he supposed. One willing to take them a long distance. Or a short one, if the hospital were needed. One willing to transport 40 or 50 people in harsh conditions on short notice. What would it cost him? How would he pay it?

“Why were you in Aruba?” Mike said.

He thought she’d recoiled at the question. But as fast as he’d seen the wrinkle in her brow, it was gone, causing him to question its existence.

Carmen dropped her gaze.

“We are talking about you, Michael. You and the help your family needs.”

He stared at her. For seven hours she’d talked his mind to numbness about her mother and father and three brothers, one of which worked for an airline and lived well in the United States. She’d told him of everything from childhood scrapes to the slave-like conditions in the factory, never even flinching when showing lashes she’d received at work. A slip of fabric off a bronzed shoulder, another in the front near cleavage. None of that had been too much. But Aruba—there was where she drew the line.

“I see,” Mike said.

Michael. He didn’t know if it was by means of attrition, or what, but he didn’t mind her calling him Michael anymore. Before, the usage reminded him of his oli Daichi or his grandmother. But Carmen had made it all her own, saying it as if he were the godfather himself. Maybe it was the accent. It had an exoticism beyond belief.

“What time’s the storm to hit?” he said.

“I couldn’t say. End of the day?”

End of the day.

He wandered over to a row of seats and pulled out his cell. Like every other airport he’d been to in the world, Wi-Fi was available. Mike logged on and went to search for helicopters he could charter. He made the first phone call, eager and explained the situation to the operator.

But she was all facts and figures, estimating space and fuel necessary, without hearing the urgency in his voice. When she quoted him a cheerful $41,000, plus tax, Mike hung up. He didn’t have that kind of money. He’d never seen that kind of money.

He rooted around in his phone for Daichi’s office number, dialed and got voicemail. After hanging up on that, he called the firm’s answering service and asked to get put through to Daichi’s personal secretary—who turned out to be absolutely unavailable because it was Christmas Eve.

With a sigh, Mike dropped his face in his hands. Who did he think he was, anyway? Tak? He hadn’t the ability to save himself, else he’d be back there with them, facing death where he belonged, instead of sitting in Argentina with nowhere to go.

“Maybe a boat?” Carmen said.

A boat! It was bound to be cheaper than a plane, he thought, and immediately went searching for companies online.

Private, temporary yacht rentals were available for specific activities. They transported up to 20 to 25 people in most cases and would take them snorkeling, deep sea fishing, or to watch the setting sun.

Mike sighed.

“The Embassy,” Carmen suggested with a clap. “They are American citizens, like you, no? The Embassy will help them, for sure.”

“Of course!” He could have kissed her. He would have kissed her, if he weren’t on a forced sabbatical from women. More searching on the net turned up the American consulate in Curaçao. He put in a call and explained the situation, emphasizing that not only were they American citizens, but prominent American citizens. “My uncle, Daichi Tanaka, is quite famous,” he said for the umpteenth time. “He’s been on Time, People, Newsweek. He’s won the Pritzker Prize. The man’s like the Nelson Mandela of architecture.”

Okay, yeah, it was a road too far, but he was saving lives here and that’s what mattered.

“Whatever the cost is,” Mike said. “The family can pay tenfold. Just ensure you have someone to get them out. There is a pregnant woman and several small children. Their deaths would be a scandal of epic proportions. It would raise diplomatic concerns, I’m sure.”

He wasn’t sure, of course. He wasn’t even sure if it would conjure more than a memorial cover on Architectural Digest and a scrolling headline along the bottom of CNN, but hell, he was in this for the gold.

They assured him that they would alert local authorities and follow up to ensure that something had been done. Mike took the name of the woman on the phone and hung up, feeling a sense of accomplishment for once.

He turned to face Carmen who smiled a little too brightly.

“See there? American problems solved with American ease. Now, I must go.”

Mike stood, darting straight up stupidly, and looked down at her with concern.

“Go where?”

“To the factory. It’s where I live and work. I’ve explained this already.”

Maybe it was the cold steel of worry lodged in his throat, a thousand worries about the safety of his family. Maybe it was the sight of a young and beautiful woman with lashes on her body and hands akin to his grandmother’s. Maybe it was him, aching to prove he could be human, whole, and kind with reciprocity. Whatever it was, his mouth moved before he could stop it.

“Come with me,” he said. “Don’t go back there.”

Carmen blinked, stared, then chucked him a brittle laugh. “You don’t even know where you are going.”

“To a hotel. Somewhere close.”

She shook her head. “And do what? Be your whore till you tire of me? No, thank you.”

Mike smiled weakly. As if a guy like him could tire of a woman so beautiful.

“Actually,” he said. “I’ve sworn off women. So, if that’s your only objection…”

Carmen’s brow creased. “What does this mean? ‘Sworn off?’”

“It means I don’t want to be with them.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean that…you prefer men? Because in Argentina—”

Mike’s cheeks colored. “I am very much attracted to women. I am very much attracted to you. But poor decisions teach me that I should be alone for awhile. I am…searching for the truth in me, I guess.”

Carmen studied him as if trying to determine whether she had translated properly. Finally, her face smoothed.

“You ask for everything and offer nothing, a few days of comfort in exchange for my livelihood.”

Mike lowered his gaze. It was true. He could offer her nothing. Not without gaining employment. He thought of his job at IBM, the one where he hadn’t bothered to put in for more than vacation time. They had a location there in Buenos Aires, though and he had enough seniority to press for relocation.

“What if I hire you?” he asked. “To show me around? To be a tour guide, translator, to help me find a job?”

Carmen’s eyes sparkled. “And when all that is done?”

Mike grinned. “To teach me Spanish, of course.”

Carmen’s mouth spread into a wondrous smile.

“Estoy loco,” she groaned and slipped her hand into his.

He didn’t know if she meant that she was crazy or him, but whatever the translation, he suspected both were right.

Chapter Forty-Four

Deena rushed into the house with her father-in-law on her heels. They were late. So late that whatever meager supplies existed on an island scarcely 30 miles large—an island that somehow managed to never get storms—would no doubt be beyond their grasp. Still, she sent two housekeepers into the city with order to get whatever non-perishables they could. Three others were tasked with gathering whatever flashlights, candles, matches, portable radios, and first aid kits they could find. Two more hunted down bottles of water and filled as many discarded jugs and soda bottles they could manage.

“The house,” Daichi reminded her. “The house itself…”

A silent conversation passed between, one where he reprimanded and she accepted it. On buying the house, Deena knew that it lacked the proper fixtures for adequate storm protection. Combine with that the reality that it sat wedged in the Caribbean Sea and she really had been careless. Except, it never rained in Aruba. Or so she’d thought.

“Wood,” Deena said. “We need as much as possible.”

“Musuko, you must know that—”

“Tell everyone to find an armful of wood.” She spoke directly to Ms. Jimenez then. “I don’t care if they have to tear up the furniture to do it. Board every window. Protect every space. Have all the supplies delivered to the drawing room. When the storm starts, I want everyone in there until it ends.”

Daichi looked at her.

“And if…conditions deteriorate?” he said.

“There’s an upstairs linen room. It doesn’t have windows.”

Daichi eyed her.

“I see.”

And she knew he did. He was, perhaps, the only one who did.

****

To Tak, it made no sense to wreck the furniture when they had a forest of trees in the backyard. Had his wife been the one to discover Tony and his half-naked minx, she might have remembered that. But, since she wasn’t, it was Tak who strode for the gardens with little more than a chainsaw.

“That’s a really bad idea,” Tyson called, falling in alongside him at once.

Tak doubled his speed. If Tyson took the hint, it wasn’t apparent.

“I’ll bet that you’ve never cut down a tree,” he said. “Which means you’re guaranteed to get hurt. Let me grab some supplies from the garage and help you. I don’t…want anything to happen to you.”

Tak wished he wouldn’t say things like that. He really wished he wouldn’t say things like that.

He watched him go, repressing the urge to fling himself into the task of assaulting trees ignorantly. Anything to avoid the awkwardness with Tyson.

Tyson returned with two sets of goggles, helmets, gloves, a few wedges and something Tak couldn’t even identify.

“Come on,” Tyson said. “Your furniture’s pretty expensive. Let’s chop a few trees and save you guys some money, huh?”

Tak nodded, but still, he stood, gaze sweeping the landscape for someone—anyone—to accompany them.

At least he’d said, “you guys,” an acknowledgement of Tak’s wife—an acknowledgment of his marriage. That had to be a sign of improvement in their conditions. After all, Tak wasn’t a homophobe. Once Tyson accepted the platonic nature of their relationship, there was no reason to think they couldn’t find friendliness again.

That’s what he told himself.

They made it as far as the tangle of trees and their looming darkness before Tyson selected one good for cutting.

“It’s already leaning,” he explained. “So, we’ll go with the lean, not against it. It’s small enough to come down easy.”

They set to work in silence, with Tak following his lead, moving away brush and scattered limbs from their landing site, then deciding on the direction they would move when the tree gave way. After that, Tyson sawed in a small undercut on the bark about two feet up from the root, an incision he explained would aid the tree in falling safely. He followed it with a careful cut, uniform all the way around the tree.

“I owe you an apology,” Tyson said as he worked.

Tak studied leaves on the ground.

“Uh huh.”

“I’m attracted to you. I thought you were attracted to me, too.”

Tak felt his face go hot.

“So, you’re saying I gave you some kinda gay vibe.”

Tyson shot him a look.

“I’m not gay.”

“Uh…yeah you are.”

Tyson set down his saw.

“Listen to me. What I had with Ash—that was different.”

“Yeah, okay. I gathered that much myself.”

Tyson looked him over with eyes that weren’t quite the way Tak remembered them. What he’d taken to be astuteness now looked like naked interest.

“I’m not gay,” Tyson repeated. “I only thought that we connected in some meaningful way. I only thought—”

“Look. Let’s just cut the wood, okay?”

“I’m not asking you to choose between Deena and me. She doesn’t have to know.”

“I’m leaving,” Tak announced and tossed his helmet to the ground.

Only, Tyson grabbed him by the arm the second he moved. Tak snatched free.

“Look, I don’t care that you have some kind of identity crisis. Or even that you think I’m your soulmate. Chop the damned wood, already,” Tak said. “Or I’ll forget my manners and plant that chainsaw in your skull.”

Tyson stared, stared until there was nothing but the violent rise and fall of Tak’s chest and the wild way he looked at him. He opened his mouth to say more, then closed it and returned to the tree.

“Tell Crystal,” Tak said. “Tell her today. And stop making a fool out of my wife’s cousin.”